


Jeeves and the Editorial Distress

by triedunture



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-19
Updated: 2008-02-19
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: Bertie begins writing for the first time.





	Jeeves and the Editorial Distress

  


Title: Jeeves and the Editorial Distress  
Pairing: Jeeves + Wooster  
Rating: PG  
Words: 8300  
Warnings: a little meta  
Disclaimer: Owned? Not really, no.  
Summary: Bertie begins writing for the first time.

<><><>

It was a beautiful day, which should have been the first clue. The birds were singing in the tree branches, children were frolicking in the grass, and the sky showed no signs of rain or gloom. The wind was brisk, but not biting. The sun was warm, but not blinding. And Bertram W. Wooster was decked out in a slickly polished raiment that even the discerning Jeeves had stamped with approval. The new hat, in particular, was quite natty.

After ankling around Hyde Park for an hour or so of the afternoon's best, Bertie Wooster turned back towards Berkley Court with a spring in his step. It was, after all, a gorgeous sort of day. His mind was buzzing with the sorts of things he could compare it to; a chappie who had found a fiver in his trouser pocket, for example. An unexpected pleasant experience, is what he was aiming for.

He'd have to get back to the flat and take up his pen, or Bertie would be apt to forget that lovely turn of phrase. So he toddled home with the sort of lazy speed he liked the most. Upon entering, he found Jeeves tidying up. That wasn't so unusual. The man was a marvel of domestic care-taking. It seemed that every spare moment of his day was devoted to scrubbing, oiling, sweeping, polishing, and generally keeping things just so.

What was unusual was the packet of papers in his capable hands. Jeeves stood by the window, reading over the thing with a finger pressed to his lips in thoughtful consideration. The bubbling penmanship on the papers was familiar to Bertie; it was his own.

Bertie yelped. 'Jeeves, what are you doing?'

'Reading, sir.' Jeeves turned over a loose page.

'Well, stop it!' Bertie surged forward and ripped the stack of paper from Jeeves. He cradled it protectively against his chest. 'You can't! You just can't.'

Jeeves finally looked up, as if he had been shaken from a deep trance of concentration and was just noticing the young master in the room for the first time. 'I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realise you intended the manuscript to remain private.' He gestured to the credenza against the wall. 'I found it wedged behind the furniture and assumed it had fallen there without notice.'

Bertie gulped; it had been such a nice hiding place behind the credenza. Who dusts behind credenzas, anyway? Rum, is what Bertie considered the entire discovery.

He placed his hat and walking stick in their appropriate stands and regarded the pages he now held. 'It's nothing really,' he said with an affected air of insouciance. 'Just some scribblings I was putting down. A diary, you know. Had lunch, had tea, had supper, what?'

Jeeves coughed softly. 'If you forgive me for saying so, sir, it did not read like a diary. It appeared, rather, to be a short piece of fiction based on your own life.'

'Fiction? Fiction? What fiction?' Bertie chortled nervously. 'No no no, Cambridge birds in thick glasses write fiction. Soppy-hearted young women write fiction. A Wooster does not write fiction, no.' He toyed with the pages, running his thumb up and down the edge of them to make a light ruffling sound like the wing-flap of an agitated bird.

'Sir, there is no need to be apprehensive about such an endeavour,' Jeeves said with a small incline of his majestic head. 'From what I've seen, sir...'

Bertie nodded glumly and tossed the pages onto the chesterfield, where they fanned smartly. 'Just awful, isn't it?'

'No, sir. It was very good.' Jeeves stood with his hands folded behind his back, staring off somewhere in the middle distance.

Bertie gaped. 'Good?' He searched Jeeves' impassive face with a practised eye. The valet could wear the mask, that much was certain, but Bertie had never known him to kid around like this. 'What do you mean, good?'

Another fluffy sheep-cough. 'The narrative voice is strong and entertaining, sir. The characterisation is well-conceived. The settings are lively and the humour is of the sort that is most sought-after in today's popular magazines.'

'I say, Jeeves, are you being serious?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You're not just pulling the Wooster leg to have a good laugh about it later with the other valets at the Little Europa?'

'I believe you refer to the Junior Ganymede, sir. And no, I am not making light of the work.'

Bertie pulled a face and glanced back at the pile of papers. Work? Was that what he had done? It hadn't felt like work. Well, his hand had cramped a bit after writing for so many hours long into the night. But he hadn't dared dream that it could be classified as anything more than a diversion. Yet here was Jeeves, master of all artistic knowledge, reader of practically every book in the world, saying that it was work, and it was _good_.

Bertie blushed. 'Well. Thank you, Jeeves. I, erm, haven't quite finished it yet.'

Jeeves moved fluidly to the chesterfield and began shuffling the pages back in order. 'Yes, sir, I had noticed. Perhaps when you have completed the tale, you would like someone to edit the prose so it may be better received by an acquisitions department.'

'Acquisitions?' Bertie took hold of the neatly stacked papers that Jeeves now handed him. 'What are you talking about?'

Jeeves glided over to the liquor cabinet and, without being told, began mixing a brandy and soda. 'Publication in one of the aforementioned popular magazines, sir. I have no doubt that, with a modicum of fine-tuning, your story would be printed immediately.'

The need for a drink popped into Bertie's mind; Jeeves handed over the glass before a request could leave his lips. The b. and s. was gulped down greedily.

'Published? You really think so?' Bertie licked his lips. 'I had some of the lowest marks in composition at school. I suppose you just never know, do you, Jeeves?'

'Very true, sir.'

'I would very much enjoy publication. Prove something to old Malloney, that whip-cracking headmaster, what?'

'Indeed, sir.'

'Only problem is, Jeeves, I don't know anyone who would edit the bally thing. Sippy springs to mind, but he's more of a poetry chap. Might take all my sentences and mould them into sonnets or some such rot.'

Jeeves plucked the empty glass from Bertie's drumming fingers and set it on the silver salver that was balanced on his fingertips. 'If you would allow me to glance over the finished pages, sir, I could provide such a service.'

'Jeeves,' Bertie said with a grin, 'you stand alone. You are my chef, my wardrober, my driver, and my accountant. And on top of all these duties that I'm sure no other valet does so deftly, you offer to be my editor as well?'

Jeeves offered a shallow bow.

Bertie clapped his hands and rubbed them together with great enthusiasm. 'Brilliant! Let me get my pen!'

<><><>

One week later, Bertie paced in the sitting room, smoking like a chimney in a Russian winter. He glanced at the door to the kitchen and frowned. Worse than waiting for one's first child to be delivered by the doctors, he decided. For behind that door sat Jeeves, carefully paging through the finished manuscript. Truth be told, it wasn't just the scrutiny of his scribblings that made Bertie nervous; it was the eagle-eyed man that was heading such scrutiny. Jeeves was many things to Bertie, but one thing the valet had never been was afraid. He spoke his mind on subjects ranging from monograms to matrimonial prospects. Yes, he always kept that stuffy air of respect towards Bertie, but dash it. Surely Jeeves knew that Bertie valued his opinion above all others?

(This had little to do with being a kowtowed employer, unless, of course, one referred to the cardiac organ. And there was the crux of the matter: Jeeves held in his hands not only Bertie's wardrobe and luncheon menu, but also his heart. Bertie had been vaguely aware of this state of affairs for some time; he had cheerfully put it to one side like one would a screaming kettle. Nothing to be done about it, he supposed, but bear it like a stoic. But it was difficult to be stoic when Jeeves was acting as doctor to Bertie's first-born. And Bertie decided to drop that metaphor; it was getting all mangled.)

Bertie heard another faint rustle of paper. It was more than he could bear. He snuffed out his cigarette and lit a new one. Then, puffing like a dickens, he tapped lightly on the door. 'I say, coming along all right, Jeeves?'

'Yes, sir,' the deep baritone floated through the woodwork. 'If you would like to review my edits, sir, I am nearly done with the final paragraph.'

Bertie heaved a relieved sigh and pushed on through the door. 'In all that time, you may have built a rocket or --'

Bertie stopped short. He looked down at the pages on the kitchen's butcher block table. What had been the sweetest lines of black script adorning the most tasteful of cream stock was now a jumble of deliberate slashes and scribblings of a red chinagraph pencil.

Jeeves brandished one such red chinagraph pencil between his thumb and forefinger. He sat there in his shirtsleeves, black arm-garters making dual funeral bands at his elbows. He made, in Bertie's opinion, an absurdly long delete mark through the final sentence, giving the curled tail of it something of a flourish at the end. Then the pencil was set down.

'Sir?' Jeeves' concerned voice, which was just a touch less airy than his normal voice, glided into Bertie's ears.

Bertie picked up the pages and flipped through them, his face falling as he did so. It wasn't just the last page; every single passage had undergone the same rigorous red-pencilled assault. His beautiful little phrases and charming images had fallen like wounded soldiers under the editorial attack. Jeeves had killed them. Murderer!

'It looks like someone has bled all over it!' Bertie cried, his voice choked with betrayal.

'I endeavoured to be thorough, sir.'

'I thought you said it was good! You said, and I quote, 'It was very good.'"

'It was, sir. But I found the prose needed some pruning.'

'Pruning!?' Bertie was shocked to find real tears spring to his eyes. 'It hasn't been pruned, it's been hacked to pieces!' This injustice was akin to having a beautiful baby boy born unto him, only to have the doctor report that the child had double the number of organs than was strictly necessary. His beloved child. His own flesh and blood.

The tears refused to stay put. They rolled down Bertie's smooth cheek to be swept away by the back of his hand. 'You could have just told me it was utter rot,' Bertie said with a barely stifled sniffle. 'You didn't have to get my hopes up like that. I was so --'

But then a fresh wave of agony coursed through him, and Bertie had to flee the room before he began sobbing like an infant in front of Jeeves. He dashed a hand across his eyes once more and pushed on to his bedroom, where he intended to stay until he died of embarrassment. Bertie calculated that this would take about five minutes.

He had never so much as dribbled one tear in front of Jeeves; indeed, he hadn't cried like this since Malloney of Malvern-on-the-Sea had caned him for the crime of stealing confiscated biscuits from the locked drawer in his study (a crime that Gordon Skinner had really committed, pinning it on Bertram by sneaking crumbs into his bedsheets), but that was more out of physical pain than soulful turmoil. Yes, Bertram Wooster has always maintained a stiff upper lip in even the rummiest of situations; he found that chappies who cried a great deal and spent hours moaning about their misfortunes were a useless lot.

Bertie stabbed his cigarette out in his bedroom ash tray and reached for the handkerchief in his breast pocket. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he blew his nose. His face was red and puffy; ridiculous, really, he thought, to get so keyed up over a silly little story. Of course it was no good. (He folded his sodden handkerchief.) It had been stupid to think it might be.

A gentle cough sounded on the other side of the bedroom door. 'Sir, may I enter?' Jeeves asked through the wood.

Bertie worked his throat until he was certain his words would not squeak out like a damsel's. 'One moment, Jeeves.' He dabbed at his eyes one last time and moved to unlock the door. He stood there, hands in his trouser pockets, staring at the toes of his shining leather shoes. 'Please forgive the outburst, my good man. Of course you are allowed a spot of frivolous hi-jinks as much as the next bird. Shouldn't take it so personally, what?'

'Sir.' Jeeves' hand came into Bertie's vision, holding the reddened manuscript under his nose. 'It was not my intention to upset you; this is not a joke on my part, sir. If you would look through the pages, you will see that all my revisions can be supported with specific evidence. The story will be much stronger for it, sir.'

'You mean you made these corrections in all seriousness?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you don't think the thing's a piece of hopeless drivel?'

'I wouldn't have put forth so much effort, sir, if I had thought it so.'

Bertie took the pages carefully, flipping through them. The sight of all the marks still made him shiver. 'It looks like a lot of bally work needs to be done, Jeeves.'

'We could begin now, sir. Unless you'd like to take tea first?'

Bertie waved a hand through the air. 'Who can eat when the second scene has been struck entirely? Tell me, Jeeves, why my description of Central Park has disappeared under your vengeful pen.'

Jeeves led the young master to the sitting room. There, the pages were spread on the floor to be examined piece by piece. Bertie sat cross-legged on the carpet amidst the chaotic leaves of paper, while Jeeves surveyed the madness from an armchair.

'While extremely amusing, sir, your account of the sprawling parkland had no bearing on the plot. No real action took place there, so I thought it best to confine the scenes to the vaudeville office, the theatre, and the building where the narrator resides.' Jeeves held up the pages in question and quirked his eyebrow.

Bertie sighed. 'I suppose I see your reasoning. The C.P. is out, then.' He took those pages from Jeeves and tossed them aside before picking up another handful. 'What's this long note of yours in this margin here?'

Jeeves hesitated one moment longer than was normal. 'Perhaps we should discuss the portrayal of the aunt figure first, sir. It is my belief that you should allude to her vaudeville past in the early stages of the --'

'Now wait a moment!' Bertie cried, still casting his eyes over the long note. 'You believe that there is a fatal flaw in the resolution of the story? Just what does that mean, Jeeves?'

Jeeves cleared his throat and carefully removed the red-stained page from Bertie's fingers. 'It was merely a passing thought, sir. I observed that the narrator, while a delightful guide through the story's twists and turns, doesn't necessarily effect much change in the story. That is, the situation resolves itself via a _deus ex machina_ sort of device. Some readers may feel disappointed that the conflict was so neatly brought to a conclusion without any effort on the part of the characters.'

'But the narrator is the one who leads the aunt to the vaudeville manager!' Bertie argued. 'If I--I mean, he--hadn't done so, they would have never realised they were long-lost loves!'

'One assumes that, when their children married, the two would eventually discover their lost connexion, sir.'

'Well, dash it!' Bertie tossed the pages in the air, where they floated for a moment before flopping down in a scattered heap. 'That's the only idea that filtered through the Wooster brain. If it's flawed, then I'm sunk; I haven't the faintest idea how to finish the tale now!' He clapped his hands over his face. 'I may as well throw the whole thing in the incinerator.'

'I would not advise that, sir,' Jeeves said. 'I see now that I should have led you through this process more slowly. It can be jarring to those who are not prepared. But sir, even the greatest writers must revise. Very often, only the barest bones of their original drafts remain in the final product.'

Bertie moaned into his hands as if he had been stabbed in the diaphragm.

Jeeves bestowed a sympathetic pat to his shoulder. 'But your piece is far superior to that of most amateurs, sir. I see a great sophistication in your craft. I have no doubt you'll think of a way to improve the ending; it will be deserving of the Wooster name when you are finished with it.'

Bertie peeked out from between his spread fingers. 'Jeeves, I now understand those sensitive artistic types that I've met in Washington Square. This sort of life would make even the most stalwart chap want to curl up in bed and never step out again, what?'

'It is an emotionally draining process, sir. If you would like to take tea now --'

'Tea must wait!' Bertie said, slapping his hands down on his knees. 'I need my ink and some fresh paper. The problem must be tackled post-haste.'

'Do you require anything else, sir?' Jeeves asked as he rose to his feet.

Bertie frowned. 'Yes, maybe a little tea. Thank you, Jeeves.'

<><><>

Late into the night, Bertie sat at his once-decorative writing desk with his faithful nibbed pen between his fingers. Ink smeared across his palms as he wrote whole pages, only to crush them into balls minutes later. His hair was ruffled into unbecoming peaks from all the pulling he had done to it. And what with the endless pots of tea Jeeves was supplying, his right leg was jumping with nerves.

He nearly shot out of his chair when Jeeves silently materialised at his elbow to pour a fresh cupful. 'Good Lord, Jeeves, are you still up and about?' He rolled his bleary eyes to the clock on the mantle. It was well past two in the morning. 'Get to thee to the sheets and pillows, man!'

'I was waiting for you to complete your task first, sir.'

'Well, you might be waiting until the summer solstice at the rate I'm going. That chappie with the rock and hill will finish up his to-do list before me, I think.'

Jeeves gave a discreet cough into his fist. 'I do not believe the matter is as insurmountable as Sisyphus', sir. The proper words will come to you in time.'

'Yes, but meanwhile, you may as well get some rest.' Bertie made a shooing motion with his pen. 'Off with you now.'

'Very good, sir.' Jeeves took up his tea tray once more. 'Good luck, sir.' And with that, he departed as soundlessly as he'd come.

Bertie stretched his arms high in the air, cracking the bones in his neck and back in a series of satisfying pops. That Jeeves was certainly better than a mortal man deserved, Bertie thought. He was like a living, breathing ex-machine whatsit. Always popping in at just the right moment with just the right word or two. A bevy of intelligence and cunning.

Bertie chewed on the end of his pen. If only Jeeves could inhabit his story, he mused, and solve all its problems with a nicely entertaining plan. Bertie leafed through the manuscript. It was really too bad that the valet character sulked in the background, only carrying a bag or two and contributing nothing more than an understanding of the narrator's wealth. If the real Jeeves had been there, by Jove, the entire mix-up would have been found out before the narrator had set foot in New York. But then the bally story would have lasted about three sentences. It was a more complicated plot that would have welcomed Jeeves...

Bertie's mouth dropped open and his hand flew to his brow. 'I say!' he I-sayed. 'That's it!'

Up to this point in history, the Wooster line had not been prone to Eureka moments, as shoulder-to-shoulder with the Conqueror as they had been. The Woosters had not been inventors or philosophers; they weren't equipped for heavy lifting of the mental variety. However, at that moment, Bertie hit upon the pearl of wisdom that escapes even the most clever of artists: paint/draw/sculpt/write what you know best.

He grabbed a sheaf of clean paper and dipped his pen in the ink pot. At the very top of the new page, he wrote in his fluffy script: _My Man Jeeves_. And then he set to work in earnest.

<><><>

Morning found Bertram drooling on his final paragraph. He woke to the sun streaming through the window and birds being much too cheery. He sat up, noticed a page had stuck to his face, and pulled it away with a wince. A glance in the nearby vanity mirror showed the words etched, DaVinci-like, on his left cheek. He looked a mess, but the work was done! Bertie looked down at his pages with glowing pride.

'Good morning, sir,' Jeeves said, appearing at his side. 'Did you have a productive evening?'

'Most productive, Jeeves! Most productive.' Bertie rose from his seat slowly due to protesting muscles. Jeeves lent a steadying hand under his elbow. 'I wrote a completely new adventure. It's ten times the story that the first one was. Topping!'

'It is good to see you so energised, sir. I feared you would become discouraged by the work.'

Bertie scrubbed at his inky face with a handkerchief that Jeeves provided. 'On the contrary, it was as if my brain had been suddenly struck by a bolt of lightning. I want you to glance over these pages, Jeeves, and tell me what your impressions are. Perhaps my dream-addled brain just imagined them; I hope they're not complete gibberish.'

'I shall peruse the manuscript while you bathe, sir.' Jeeves flitted out of sight, and Bertie heard the water running in the bathtub. He yawned widely and toddled off to take the welcome splash.

He had just eased himself into the warm and soapy when the door of the _salle de bain_ opened again to reveal Jeeves. He stood there in his black coat with the pages in his hands, looking very much like the devil trolling for signatures in his book.

'Sir?' Jeeves asked, and within the syllable was a myriad of Jeevesian admonishments that Bertie's trained ear could discern. 'I've begun reading, sir, and I'm afraid I don't understand.'

Bertie hooked his chin over the lip of the tub to gaze up at his valet. 'Something the matter, Jeeves?'

Jeeves' lips tightened in a thin line as he looked back down at the papers. 'It appears you've made an addition to the cast of characters, sir.'

'Yes, changed the whole thing around. I think it's quite an improvement, what?'

'Well, sir --' The noble brow furrowed. 'You've included _me_ in the tale, sir.'

'Absolutely! It was just what it needed.'

'May I ask why, sir?'

'Why!? Because the narrator was a boring ass, that's why. He had a few gems in his verbal repertoire, but like you said, Jeeves, no one would really care about him, what? I just assumed people would because he's _me_ and I'm quite interested in myself, I suppose. But you, Jeeves. The world would clamour to hear about you. You're the most dashed interesting bird I know.'

Jeeves did not lose his granite expression. He said slowly, 'I fail to see what interest the average reader would have in the movements of a mere valet, sir.'

'Tosh!' Bertie cried, slapping the surface of his bathwater like a magistrate with a gavel. 'I demand you read the thing in its entirety before trying to drive a red-pencil spike through its heart.'

'Very good, sir.' But the words were as frosty as a Norwegian windowpane. Jeeves retreated, leaving Bertie to his bath.

<><><>

Between tea and eggs and ham and toast, there was a heated argument about the shape of plot. A strange development in the Wooster household, but there it was. Bertie supposed that if he became a real author, such discussions would become the status quo, quickly replacing verbal parries and thrusts over neckties and monograms.

'Don't you think it's brilliant, though?' Bertie cried.

'No, sir. I think that an ordinary publisher would be hesitant to print such material.'

'Oh, come now. It's a darling little story. Look, the poet chappie needs a hand in tricking his rich aunt, you see? So then you suggest --' Bertie flipped through the pages, scanning the prose with an eager eye. Jeeves stood beside the breakfast table with a frown permanently applied to his visage.

'Yes, sir. I recall a similar incident occurring when we travelled to New York years ago,' Jeeves interrupted. 'However, I do not recall ever possessing the godlike faculties that you purport herein.'

'Jeeves, perhaps your vision is clouded. You've lived your whole life as Jeeves and cannot begin to imagine how a normal cove behaves. I assure you, compared to the feeble masses, you are a conjurer, a magician, a heaven-sent whatsit-knot cutter. Gabardine knot? Some sort of knot.'

'Gordian, sir. I must say, sir, I do not feel wholly comfortable with the portrayal. The narrative tone, in particular, is...'

'Is what?'

Jeeves aligned the pages neatly, shuffling them against the tabletop to put them in order. 'I fear, sir, that certain publishers would see it as something best kept out of their magazines.'

'Oh, not this class business again? Any modern publisher would be keen on stories about valets saving the day. It's the twentieth century, Jeeves. Valets can be heroes too, you know.'

Jeeves blew a frustrated puff of air from his nose. It was a rare showing of slipping control, and Bertie stopped eating long enough to look up at his manservant. Jeeves' eyes were shut in a gentle manner that suggested he was recouping his senses and mentally composing his next verbal foray. In his crisp white shirt and black suit, he looked rather like an Oriental Panda meditating on some bamboo.

'Sir.' Jeeves opened his eyes. 'I allude not to class issues, but matters of another ilk. Matters that would make publication distinctly difficult, even illicit, sir.'

Bertie frowned and took up the first page yet again, reading it over with slightly moving lips. 'I don't see anything illicit here at all. I don't mention so much as a stolen policeman's helmet. And if you're worried about the cocktails that appear on page three, I can work in something about this all taking place pre-Prohibition --'

'I direct your eyes to the fourth line, sir.' Jeeves said, running a neatly trimmed fingernail underneath said line. 'Wherein you compare my profile with that of Apollo.'

'Am I remembering the correct Johnnie? He's the one with the nicely shaped head, isn't he? Nothing untoward about that.'

'And then we have line five, which contains an allusion to the softness of my hair.'

Bertie wagged a finger in the air. 'Ah, you see, that's what one would call artistic license, Jeeves. Though I have no information on your hair's actual texture, I have added that detail as befits your character. If I'm quite far off the mark, I can easily change it to --'

'And here in line seven, the strength of my shoulders is expounded upon at some length.'

'Well, you've been known to lift three suitcases without breaking a sweat! I'm only telling the truth here. Rather.' Bertie gave a nervous laugh.

Jeeves looked down at the young master blankly. 'None of these observations seem odd to you, sir?'

'They all seem like perfectly reasonable sentences to me. Why, is there a comma out of place or something?'

'The tone is decidedly one of romantic overture,' Jeeves finally ground out at last. 'Sir,' he added.

'Oh?' Bertie swallowed a bite of his eggs. 'Well, that's just-- I say.'

Jeeves stood by like a marble statue, hands clasped behind his back, while Bertie worked through the notion and his toast.

'Now, Jeeves,' he said at length, his eyes darting between his teacup and the open window, 'your literary sensibilities are, I'm sure, quite honed. Sharp as knives and all that. But I rather think you're seeing things here, aren't you? Why, that thought would never cross a normal chappie's mind when reading such an irreproachable little story.'

'My impression is not, sir, the product of an overactive imagination,' Jeeves said coldly.

'No, no! You're just looking out for the young master, what? You aren't accustomed to seeing said y. m.'s praises put down in the black and white. Perhaps that is why they struck you as so odd.'

It was a breakfast standoff the likes of which no battlefield had ever seen. Bertie gazed up at Jeeves, an innocent smile on his face. Jeeves gazed back at him with unmoving dignity. Bertie took the grin up a notch; Jeeves finally looked away with a cough.

'As you say, sir.' He began clearing the dishes with an aloof air. 'However, I still believe you should not submit the work to any magazines in its current state.'

'Yes, well, I'll have a glance over it today.' Bertie pushed away from the table. 'But first, I believe a walk is in order. Get the blood pumping. Be back shortly, Jeeves.'

'Good day, sir,' Jeeves murmured and rolled off like a thunder cloud.

Bertie smiled at him until the kitchen door swung shut behind his broad back, and then he released his held breath with a whoosh. The mask slipped, and he nervously lifted the first five or so pages to his eyes once more. Had it been that bally obvious? Was every tiny glimmer of infatuation stuffed into these few sentences? It hadn't even occurred to Bertie that those sorts of feelings would be put on display; he'd just feverishly penned his impressions without thinking what they might reveal.

With a shifty glance to the shut kitchen door, Bertie folded the first few leaves and slipped them into his suit-coat's inner pocket. He would need an expert on more than literature to help him muddle through this one.

<><><>

Bertie found Bingo Little at his usual seat at the Drones, perched on the bar, downing his noontime restorative and laughing with the elderly barmaid.

'Bingo,' Bertie called up to him, 'I need a word, old thing.'

'You can have several of mine, Bertie. I'm not using them at all.' And Bingo chuckled merrily.

Bertie shifted on his feet, glancing about the bustling club. 'Somewhere quieter, if possible. What I have to show you is of a very private nature.'

Bingo's jovial face fell into a study of seriousness. 'Say no more. To the natatorium!'

The hall that housed the Drones swimming pool was always empty at this time of day; indeed, the natatorium usually only saw a crowd during a midnight birthday party, when it could be used as the setting for many a dare. It was more of a dunking pool, really. At this early hour, it afforded Bertie and Bingo a silent oasis.

They shucked their socks and shoes and rolled up their trouser legs; both men sat on the pool edge and dangled their bare feet in the cool water. Bingo regarded Bertie with a concerned eye.

'Now what's this all about, Bertie? I've never seen you quite so sombre.'

His words echoed up to the vaulted ceiling, reminding Bertie of a chapel's atmosphere. Fitting, he supposed; Bingo was his confessor.

He pulled the small packet of papers from his pocket and handed them over with a sigh. 'Read on, old fruit, and give Bertram your honest opinion as to its content.'

'Did you write this?' Bingo asked, scanning the pages with a frown. 'I say, Bertie, you always had low composition marks in school.'

'Just read!'

There followed a silence punctuated only by the splashing of their feet in the pool water and the rustle of pages as Bingo turned them. After he had reached the final page, which ended mid-sentence, Bingo shuffled through the lot again. 'Well, where's the rest of it?'

'That's not the issue at hand, Bingo. The issue is, what do you think of it thus far?'

'I think I want to read the rest of it!'

'Jolly good. But _re_ Jeeves...'

'Oh, yes. Just divine, Bertie. You can really hear how much you love him.' Bingo nodded.

Bertie nearly fell into the pool. 'Bingo! You can't mean that!'

'You should be happy, old man. This is a love letter, after all. And a dashed fine one, too. A little verbose, but --'

'It is certainly not a love letter! It's a work of fiction!'

Bingo frowned. 'Oh, Bertie, I don't think so. Why, no self-respecting magazine would print this in their serial section. It's entertaining, mind, but this bit here about Jeeves being your cupbearer, well, even someone as daft as me can see what you mean.'

Bertie put his head in his hands and groaned.

'There, there, old thing,' Bingo soothed. 'I always knew you had no more than a passing interest in the fairer of the species. It doesn't bother me at all.'

'Well, it bothers me! When did it begin, Bingo? When did I start looking at Jeeves, a paragon of decency, with only Greek allusions in my mind?'

'Are you sure it isn't Roman? I always get the two mixed up.'

A blue-eyed Wooster glare silenced the Little. Bingo tried again: 'So I take it Jeeves read your, erm, story and did not respond in kind?'

'He suggested we edit all the soppy adoration out of it. I wasn't even aware I had bunged it in. And the poet Johnnies tell you to write from the heart! Bah! It gets you into nothing but the soup,' Bertie said glumly.

'Oh, I don't know. All isn't lost.'

'All is the very definition of lost! I'm sunk. Finished. Found out.'

Bingo waved the pages in Bertie's face. 'Look, if you can write something this good without even trying, you can certainly write something fantastic with a small amount of forethought. That's the key to setting things right between you and Jeeves.'

Bertie looked up from his hands. 'What are you blithering about? I'm never touching a pen again, except to doodle stick figures of Aunt Agatha eating the post mistress. Prose got me into this mess in the first place.'

'It's like this, Bertie. When I was courting Mrs Little,' here Bingo blushed happily at her name, 'I found that she was a tender creature who valued subtlety above grand gestures. I could have had ten thousand roses delivered to her room, and she would have yawned. But remembering her favourite shade of green and procuring a small perfume bottle enamelled in the same? You might have thought I'd drawn down the moon for all the sweet embraces it got me.'

Bertie frowned. 'I don't think Jeeves likes green.'

'That was an example, Bertie. My point is, Jeeves bristled at outright praise, the shy thing.'

'Shy?' Bertie laughed. 'You must be thinking of another valet. Jeeves speaks his mind!'

'Yes, but would he dare speak his mind about this?' Bingo shook a finger in the air. 'Consider the factors. A mere servant. A dashing employer. A love letter that is stoutly labelled _fiction_ by said employer. The stakes are high for him, my friend.'

'So what do you advise?' Bertie paused. 'I never thought I'd say those words to you, Bingo. Consider this an amazing moment in history.'

Bingo beamed. 'First, trust Jeeves. Rewrite the story as he suggests. But when you take out the soppy bits, replace them with bits that even the stone-faced Jeeves would approve of. Appeal to his love of subtlety. Psychology and all that rot. Bung in some bits that only he would recognise as loving adoration.'

'A secret code, you mean? Just between the two of us?'

'Exactly! It's so achingly romantic.' Bingo stared off into the distance and wiped an invisible tear from his eye. 'Additionally, if he truly does not return your sentiments, then he won't discover the hidden meaning. He'd have to be looking for it, you see.'

'Bingo! These words are the least amount of rot you've ever spoken. I'll do it!'

'Better hurry,' Bingo said, handing the pages back. 'I want to know how it ends.'

<><><>

'I see you have made revisions, sir?' Jeeves said that afternoon, leaning over the young master's shoulder with a raised eyebrow. Bertie fought the impulse to throw himself bodily on the pages to keep Jeeves from seeing the tale before he had put down the last full stop.

'Er, yes. I see now that you were correct as usual, Jeeves. It was all a bit thick, you know. Too florid and showy, what? I've pared it down somewhat.' Bertie leaned an elbow on the writing desk and feigned a casual air.

'One seeks to excise what the poet called "flashy purple patches," sir,' Jeeves said, and if Bertie knew his Jeevesian (and he did), the man sounded cold. 'Would you like me to review the story, sir?'

'Well, I was wondering if you would type it up for me first, Jeeves. I fear I can't even read my own writing sometimes. Do we still have that old Oliver Eleven around?' Bertie bit at his lip. He wanted Jeeves to read the bally thing without the red chinagraph pencil in hand so that he could digest the words properly.

'Certainly, sir.' Jeeves shimmered about, retrieving the typewriter from its place in the hall cupboard and setting it up on the dining table. While he fiddled with a fresh ribbon, Bertie feverishly wrote the last few lines and then flipped through the manuscript, looking for any heavy-handed tributes to Jeeves' forearms. (They were apt to slip in on their own, sometimes.)

When Jeeves was ready, he gently pulled the pages from Bertie's grasp and sat down in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat to recreate them on the typewriter. The keys began clacking with efficient regularity, and Bertie, lacking anything better to do, tossed himself upon the chesterfield and pretended to read his new copy of _A Dark Night on the Steamboat_. Every so often, Jeeves would pause to insert a new page or adjust the ribbon, and Bertie's breath would catch. Had he read between the lines at last? Had he seen the trembling tentativeness with which Bertie loved him with a well-placed adverb or double entendre?

But no, it was just another bally page.

Bertie lit a sullen cigarette and pretended to read even harder. He had lived his entire life without Jeeves' love; he could certainly survive without it now. His stories would become dark little mysteries, that was obvious. Lots of fillies casting themselves off of cliffs for want of a husband. Lots of birds hanging themselves from ceiling fans with their beloved ties. And many, many valets coughing into their fists like distant sheep. Oh, he'd give _A Dark Night on the Steamboat_ a run for its money, that much was clear!

His gasper had turned into a line of ash in the tray on the side table. Bertie scowled. Jeeves coughed.

'Sir?' was his opening gambit.

Bertie whipped his head in Jeeves' direction, his eyes wide. Jeeves looked up from his typing, his hands stilling on the keys. 'I hadn't realised, sir, that you had seen me that night at the Midnight Revels while I was fulfilling my role of Mr Todd's correspondent.'

He was referring, of course, to a short passage in Bertie's tale about finding Jeeves living the good life; this was in order to trick an annoying aunt into thinking Rocky, Bertie's poet friend, was spending his stipend as ordered. Jeeves had been sitting with a cigar and champagne, looking as fit in his white tie as an American steel tycoon. Bertie had filed the image away in the depths of his mind, but hadn't approached. He hadn't wished to upset Jeeves' fine time. To force such a paragon of glamour and style to stand and bow and say 'sir' would have been a sin.

Bertie tried to say as much, but it came out as, 'I'd never seen you drink bubbly before, Jeeves.'

'Sir?'

Bertie ducked his head. 'That is to say, I wanted the reader to know you were more than a drink-mixer and door-opener and Deuce Et Manana, Jeeves. It would be difficult for the average observer to see you as a man, you know; I'd made you sound too perfect.' He worried his bottom lip. 'So I called forth the one instance that proved to me that you were flesh and blood. Dashed nice-looking f. and b., of course. Where ever did you get that suit of clothes on such short notice?'

'I had a contact at a reputable Greenwich tailor who owed a favour to me, sir,' Jeeves answered. 'The raiment was on loan for the duration of Mr Todd's ruse.'

'On loan! I expect that whatever the favour was for, you deserved to keep the clothes. They were made for you, Jeeves.'

'I do not have many opportunities for the donning of white tie, sir.'

'Pity.' Bertie nearly swallowed his tongue. The Wooster walked a thin line. 'Er, carry on, Jeeves.' And Bertie shoved his nose back into his murder mystery.

'Very good, sir,' Jeeves said, and returned to work at the typewriter. The key-clacking lulled Bertie into a sort of trance, and he'd nearly nodded off in his book when the machine stopped with a ding.

'Sir?' Jeeves remarked once more.

Bertie forced himself not to clutch at his chest in pain; much more of this, and he'd have to have a lie-down. 'Yes, Jeeves?' he replied with what he hoped wasn't a snappish bite.

'You would have been welcome to sit with me, sir,' Jeeves said.

A wide, unabashed smile stole across Bertie's mouth. 'Rocky's aunt needed tending to, Jeeves. Believe me, I would have much rather spent the evening with you. When it came to mealtime conversation, that woman left something to be desired.' And here he shivered to illustrate.

'When I escorted the lady to her matinee showing, I received an approximate sort of impression, sir.' There was a quiver near Jeeves' mouth that indicated his version of a grin. The keys resumed their clacking.

Bertie fingered the edge of his novel as if inspecting it for tears. 'Well, next time I see you sitting alone at a ringside table in a posh nightclub with a bottle of the best, I will make it a point to pop in and share a glass with you,' he said, and gave a high laugh.

Jeeves' eyes slid over to Bertie, his fingers never slowing on the typewriter. Bertie couldn't be certain, but it looked like the Jeevesian smile was firmly in place. 'The pages are nearly finished, sir,' he reported after a moment.

Bertie cleared his throat. 'Do you think it needs much work, Jeeves?' he asked, curling an arm across the back of the chesterfield.

'I have corrected some minor grammatical errors while transposing the tale, sir. Beyond that, no revision seems required. It is a fine piece of fiction.'

'It is less fiction than non-, eh?' Bertie said with a self-deprecating shrug. 'It's difficult to keep track of what's happened here,' he gestured to the room, 'and what's happened here.' He tapped the side of the Wooster melon. 'Anyway, it's mostly due to you that I finished the thing at all. You're an inspiration, Jeeves.'

'I am most pleased that you decided to revise according to my suggestions, sir. The other draft would not have been proper.'

Bertie looked down into his mystery again, his face growing hot. 'Quite.'

'The tone was not correct for the genre.' Jeeves paused to pluck a sheet of paper from the Oliver's grasp. 'I knew you couldn't possibly mean such words, sir. The prose was masterful, but it was...' He paused again, and Bertie wondered if he should call a doctor. Jeeves rarely needed to breathe from one stanza to the next. 'It was painful, sir,' he continued, 'to see such words used in a light, humorous way. As amusing as I'm sure it is to compare one's valet to an Adonis, I admit I did not find the joke altogether sporting, sir.'

Bertie's mouth fell open and he sat straight up on the cushions. 'What? No! I say!'

'I regret I hadn't the professional objectivity that an editor should possess, sir. I'm sure you meant no harm in your playful ways.' The thick papers were shuffled together with quiet efficiency. 'However, your new draft is convincingly tolerant of me, sir. I'm glad.'

'Convincingly...?' Bertie gaped and struggled to his feet as well. 'Jeeves! Wait just a moment! Do you think I've been playing a clever trick on you or something?'

Jeeves made a sound somewhere between 'T'ch!' and 'Ah!' that clearly meant he did not wish to answer such a question. Instead, he rose from his chair and set about tucking the typewriter away in its case. 'Do you wish to dine in this evening, sir?' he asked, though it had nothing to do with the matter at hand, in Bertie's view.

'Hold on. I think I'm seeing what's happened here. You read all that soppy stuff about your laugh being as rare and beautiful as the song of the White Stork and--'

'Not the Stork, please, sir,' Jeeves said. 'It was a thoughtful simile, but the bird's larynx is so under-developed that any song it produced would be most unseemly.'

'Well, that's why the gag works, you see. It's rare. The birds don't sing.'

'But if they did, sir, it would not be--'

'Dash it, Jeeves, do be quiet; I'm trying to make a sort of paragraph here,' Bertie cried.

'Very good, sir.'

'But it's all gone incredibly complicated just like the bally story.'

'Indeed, sir.'

'I'm speaking complete rubbish, aren't I? You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you, Jeeves?'

Jeeves tilted his head slightly. 'I admit to craving a small amount of elucidation, sir.'

Bertie hissed out a sigh. 'We both know I'm no Shakespeare, Jeeves. These little humorous tales are all well and good, but when it comes to saying something clear and fine, dash it, I'm not the cove for it. So I'm going to say something, and if you don't see what I mean, then that's all right; we'll have some dinner and I'll go to bed and it won't be so terribly frightful, really.' He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, clutching the arm of the chesterfield for support. 'I'd very much like to sit at your table, Jeeves. I'd like to light a Montesino for you, and pour us each a flute. I'd be content to watch you write in your little notebook, if you'd watch me scribble in my small journal. I'd like that. Very much.' He finally opened his eyes only to stare at the carpet.

An infinitely fascinating Berber, really.

There was a long silence, and a click that might have been the Oliver case closing or the front door shutting behind Jeeves forever. Bertie preferred not to look up and find out for sure.

'Oh, sir,' Jeeves whispered. He had somehow silently teleported before Bertie, and Bertie watched, motionless, as his strong, wide hand came up to cup his cheek. 'You mustn't change a word.'

Bertie's blue eyes snapped up, widening in abject joy. 'Jeeves! You understand what I'm getting at?'

Jeeves pressed his lips to the crown of Bertie's head, to his temple, to his eyelid. 'How brave, sir. How unlike my coward-self.' These words were murmured into Bertie's ear.

'Oh, well, it was just a metaphor, old thing.' Bertie's hands, like they'd been trained from birth to do so, alighted on the back of Jeeves' neck and pulled him down to rest his head against his slighter shoulder. 'But you knew what I meant,' he said with wonder in his voice. And he clung to his man, strengthened by a heart overflowing. 'Of course you bally well knew.'

'Yes, sir.' And Jeeves kissed him properly on the mouth, and perhaps it wasn't quite like those crescendoing epics of the M. Banks sect. Perhaps it wasn't beset with fire crackers and bursts of shooting stars behind one's eyelids. Perhaps it was merely perfect, even without all those purple patches. And Bertie was pleased enough with that.

fin.

You can download the podfic of this story [ as an audiobook/m4b here](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/jeeves-and-the-editorial-distress-audiobook) or [as an mp3](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/jeeves-and-the-editorial-distress).


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